Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Charlie Foran has stepped in for a spell at Yann Martel's What is Stephen Harper Reading?, and his selection for this round is Ray Smith's CENTURY. Calling it "A Book Still Patiently Waiting its Readers," Foran writes:

Books, like people, can get overlooked. I’d like to use this slot, so generously offered by Yann, to tell you about a wonderful Canadian work of fiction that still awaits real discovery. Ray Smith’s Century first appeared back in 1986, and didn’t cause much fuss. It had a decent publisher, and Smith had already released two books that had won him a small but noisy crowd of admirers: Lord Nelson Tavern and the humbly-titled Cape Breton is the Thought-Control Centre of Canada. These were charming, off-the-wall fictions, of a cheerful piece with the prankster stuff then emerging from the coastal regions of the United States. Smith, a Cape Bretoner exiled to Montreal, had his own coastal vibe, but it wasn’t stoner/surfer cool: it was late night FM radio, chill and iconoclastic, joshing of mainstream tastes with bite but no malice.

Still, Century didn’t launch. It took Ray Smith a long time to finish, and it wasn’t as easy in its literary skin as his earlier work: more moody and anxious, less sanguine about the triumph of light over dark. It was also set mostly in Europe, and spanned a near century in just 165 compacted, almost pointillist pages. Things had changed in Canadian culture and literature in the interim, and Smith responded by, in a sense, going even further off-shore than the island where he comes from (and now lives again, in retirement). Whatever Century was, it wasn’t “Can Lit,” as the impulse or industry was being dubbed.

I called it a “work of fiction” for a reason. The book, which has six parts linked by a single character and regular tonal overlaps, could be classified as a novel of the, yikes, post-modern variety. But, besides having no interest in any desiccated academic trope, the stories are all self-contained, as in a collection. Even Smith’s one discernable theme—how art must embody the morality largely absent from a corrupted world—isn’t writ in BLOCK LETTERS, so everyone will get it. Century defies categories and shrugs off expectations. Look, says the text, of course this isn’t life; of course it’s just a book. Allow these elegantly-arranged words to fall over you, confetti at a wedding, and then decide what the marriage is comprised of.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Over at the Contemporary Poetry Review, Jason Guriel has an excellent analysis of Robyn Sarah's poem Gesundheit, from October's Pause for Breath.

Montreal’s Robyn Sarah also presents an exemplary model for the painstaking poet. Like Wiman, Sarah publishes little but what she does publish tends to be fully realized (which means you get the feeling, reading her words, that she can account for the choice that led to every one of them) and necessary (her poems stopper a gap, a need). In retrospect, it was necessary for Wiman to draw our attention to that flock of birds, wasn’t it?, and in “Gesundheit,” published in Maisonneuve, last summer, Sarah draws our attention to the banal business of sneezing, perhaps as no other poet has:

Gesundheit

Orgasm of the nose

the sneeze

builds to hairtrigger pitch

and sweet release.

Echoes itself, betimes.

Atchoo . . . aaaatchoo! (it rhymes),

or comes in multiple,

whole strings of sneeze.

Sneeze ladylike, in a hanky.

Sneeze workmanlike, in a grab

of the grubby shirt.

Or (caught unawares)

sneeze a grand unprotected sneeze

in open air.

Some with a toothpick or a twist

of tissue, tease a sneeze,

a private trick to clear the sinuses.

A sneeze rattles the face.

Loosens the mucus.

Paves the way for the trumpeting

honk and blow—

A pepper sneeze, a pollen sneeze,

a feather sneeze, all alike

pledge to untickle in a rush,

give leave to raise

a just-a-minute finger

before succumbing to the flush—

a microsecond’s uncontrol,

a dispensation to go blotto

with impunity,

going where it takes us,

brakeless,

making the noisy noise

it makes us make.

A sneeze bobs the head.

Single or double bob,

or strings of pigeon bob,

brings blessings down on it.

That “grab / of the grubby shirt” is a delight as is the extraordinary, sonically intricate last verse paragraph, whose repetitions and internal rhymes bear the reader irresistibly along as if she, too, were committed to a sneeze from which she couldn’t pull out, a launch sequence that’s “brakeless, / making the noisy noise / it makes us make.” Unlike Wiman’s poem, though, which carefully rolls out an argument, Sarah’s poem is all perception, choosing to approach its subject from multiple angles. In the process, “Gesundheit” catalogues more sneezes than we knew existed, like an ambitious, unblinking anthropologist let loose among previously undocumented behaviors. The result is a showy, shameless, but, finally, wonderful splurging of real talent.

the rest of the essay, which looks at poems by Steven Heighton, Christian Wiman, Derek Walcott and John Ashberry, can be found here.

There is also an excellent essay in the Winter 2010 edition of ARC on Echoes of November by Zach Wells. Check it out.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Robert Wiersma reviews the new dark fantasy YA novel by Terry Griggs in this month's Q&Q:

Terry Griggs’ genuinely creepy new YA novel will thrill young readers while giving their parents nightmares. Reminiscent of Neil Gaiman’s Coraline and Michael Ende’s Momo, the story follows feisty, independent Nieve, whose parents are freelance weepers ... Nieve possesses a ceaseless flow of dangers and perils, and yet Griggs accomplishes this headlong narrative drive without sacrificing character development or emotional complexity. It’s a tremendously visual and visceral novel, with bodies aplenty (including those of babies) and human beings transformed into various household items (a chair, for example, provides a crucial clue to what’s going on). Over the course of the novel, Griggs develops a thorough and compelling mythos, one both original and drawn from traditional lore, while also creating a realistic and immersive world. Given that Nieve is the first novel in a projected trilogy, this is crucial. Readers will want, desperately, to return to Nieve’s world, and the sooner, the better.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Over at That Shakespearean Rag, Steven Beattie has posted an interview with Rebecca Rosenblum on why she chose to stay with Biblioasis for her second book.

Rebecca Rosenblum is the author of the 2008 collection Once. That book, published by the small Ontario-based press Biblioasis, won the Metcalf-Rooke Award and received almost universally positive reviews. In the wake of her success with her debut, Rosenblum was in a perfect position to jump ship to a larger house. But, for her second book, the upcoming collection The Big Dream, the author decided to stay with Biblioasis. In its ongoing series inquiring into the gulf between large and small presses, TSR asked Rosenblum about her decision to remain with her originating publisher, and her feelings about how her association with Biblioasis has benefited her as an author.

Why did you choose to stay with Biblioasis for your second book?

1) Because I had a really good editorial relationship with John Metcalf – he pushed me, but only in the directions I wanted to go, and it was exciting to be challenged like that. I think the book is better than it would have been – much better – without that relationship.

2) Because I liked the “book-creation process,” for lack of a better term. I got to lay down a piece of art on a table with Dan (Wells, publisher) and John and say, can this be my cover? And the answer was yes. A lot of work was done to make sure I didn’t have to cut the book’s length at all. The copy edit was solid. I like the title page design. These things matter.

3) Because the promotion of Once exceeded my expectations. I was really thrilled with the review coverage Once got – more like shocked, really. I got to go to a few festivals, I got to be on the radio, do readings, do interviews. I am very much aware that not every unknown author of short stories gets to do this stuff. Some of it was luck, sure, but some of it was because Biblioasis worked really hard for me.

Did you ever consider the bigger payday you might have received from a larger house?

No. I mean, I should make it clear that I think I was paid decently for Once and will be for The Big Dream. My agent, Samantha Haywood, negotiated the latter deal and was very positive about it – she would never have let me sign anything inappropriate. Beyond that, no, money was not a factor.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Mark Medley has an interesting article on the ecology of the small press/large press divide, for which I was briefly interviewed last week. You can read it here.

I've been trying to post a response to the article for an hour now and have failed. I'll post it, for now, here. If any readers out there can figure out how to add a comment to the article on my behalf, my neurotic side would be greatly appreciative. Maybe it would lessen the tingling sensation in my left arm.

My response:

A Couple of things:

One: Cordelia Strube was never a Biblioasis author. She is, in fact, currently a Coach House author, which is why I thought of her, to act as a counter to the idea suggested here that movement is only one way. It is far more fluid than that. Strube is a hell of a writer who has worked with both larger and smaller presses, for reasons that may not always be entirely about the money. The other authors mentioned, and the point I tried to make in doing so, is that many of these writers switch back and forth between larger and smaller presses, depending on the project. Think of Leon Rooke, one of your Canada Also Reads candidates, moving from Thomas Allen to Biblioasis to Porcupine's Quill to Thomas Allen to (in 2010) Exile.

Two: We are not farm teams and this isn't baseball. It doesn't do justice to what actually happens in publishing -- see above -- and it does not do justice to the authors on our lists. The quality of play on a farm team is almost always far below that of the majors: that just isn't necessarily the case here. In baseball, if you're one of the best, you move up to the majors, at least in part because excellence in the sport and commercial reward are very closely aligned. It just does not always work that way in publishing. Everyone, especially in the industry, or reporting on it, knows this. It's simply not a question of a writer hitting their peak, as Mark suggests, then leaving. And how we judge "excellence" is not always the same. Are we speaking commercially? Aesthetically? There's much more at play here than the quality of the work. No self-respecting publisher would view their press as a farm team. It's a tired cliche, and an extremely disrespectful one. Coach House, Cormorant, The Porcupine's Quill ... they're just damn good presses, with proud histories, who have made lasting contributions to Canadian literature and culture, and for frankly often very little reward. Perhaps it's time that they get some.

3. No one begrudges the writers their money. Though I've yet to read the Waterproof Bible, Superheroes is evidence enough Andrew is wonderful. I'm sure his new book is as well. But he also strikes me as a writer who might, for a variety of reasons, be back with Coach House or some other press at another time. And the gap between what smaller independent presses can offer and what the larger presses are willing to offer in many cases is getting to the point of being negligible, especially for literary fiction. This is just more evidence, as I see it, that the "ecology" of this particular issue is a bit more complex than Sam Hiyate and company would have you believe, and that there's a lot more here which needs to be explored far more rigorously. No one begrudges writers their money, or their moving on (or, for that matter, their return). But if you focus TOO MUCH on following the money you risk missing out on the larger (& quite possibly more interesting) story.

Friday, March 12, 2010

If there is a truth in Horacio Castellanos Moya's novel Dance With Snakes, it is a dirty one: a truth about the grotesque possibilities and misunderstanding of humanity.

The book opens in confusion. A mysterious yellow car has been parked in front of a housing complex in San Salvador, El Salvador. Intrigued by the vehicle and its lone, dirty occupant, the unemployed and largely unemployable sociology graduate Eduardo Sosa begins talking to the man. After an incident between the man (Jacinto Bustillo) and the police, Sosa spends the day with him, eventually assuming his identity in the book's most traumatic passage.

From this point, the novel assumes its dreadful arc of misunderstanding and violence. The new Bustillo takes up residence in the old yellow Chevrolet, in which he finds four snakes. He is soon accepted by the snakes -- whom2 he names -- and unleashes terror on the city.

The violence begins with a simple lack of understanding between some mall security guards and the ever-drinking Bustillo/Sosa. It spirals out of control and blooslust is incited as the snakes reek havoc in the downtown market. After learning the truth behind the original Don Jacinto's downfall, the new Bustillo seeks vengeance on those responsible. Savagely beaten by one of Don Jacinto's destroyers and his associates, the new Bustillo, lying on the ground near a gas station recovering from his injuries, is peed on by a drunk youth. He retaliates.

Finally, while trying to find a place to lie low while the police search the city for him, the new Bustillo kills a rich family their security guards and maids in their home in an affluent neighbourhood.

By the end of the first chapter and its 50 pages, it is apparent that there is no particular reason the new Bustillo kills so many people.

Castellanos Moya is able to strip raw the chaotic effects of violence across a society by switching narrators throughout, using different characters in the second and third chapter. By the fourth, he returns to Bastillo/Sosa.

The second chapter is narrated by the deputy police commissioner responsible for stopping the outbreak of violence, which he must do while dealing with pressure from his superiors and the media, as well as with the unknown factors of his own staff and the crimes' unpredictable nature. It originally appears that the high-profile lady killed in the first attack just happened to wind up in the wrong place, but when her even higher-profile brother and his family are the victims of the final assault in the rich part of town, the serious question of whether this is a political crime is again raised.

A journalist narrates the penultimate chapter, which dutifully captures the political leadership and public's insecurity and penchant for reactionary behaviour. Neither the deputy commissioner nor the journalist are able to grasp the truth of the events.

Returning finally to the original narrator and his erotic relationship to the violence he has unleashed, Castellanos Moya skillfully captures the problems of perception that both make violence possible and exacerbate its effects.

Though graphic and possibly disgusting, Dance With Snakes strips bare with black humour the disconcerting capacities buried within humanity -- which all too often in the author's native South America have emerged to widespread misery. As an allegorical analysis of South American violence, this novel's incision cuts very close to the discouraging truth.

If there is a truth in Horacio Castellanos Moya's novel Dance With Snakes, it is a dirty one: a truth about the grotesque possibilities and misunderstanding of humanity.

The book opens in confusion. A mysterious yellow car has been parked in front of a housing complex in San Salvador, El Salvador. Intrigued by the vehicle and its lone, dirty occupant, the unemployed and largely unemployable sociology graduate Eduardo Sosa begins talking to the man. After an incident between the man (Jacinto Bustillo) and the police, Sosa spends the day with him, eventually assuming his identity in the book's most traumatic passage.

From this point, the novel assumes its dreadful arc of misunderstanding and violence. The new Bustillo takes up residence in the old yellow Chevrolet, in which he finds four snakes. He is soon accepted by the snakes -- whom2 he names -- and unleashes terror on the city.

The violence begins with a simple lack of understanding between some mall security guards and the ever-drinking Bustillo/Sosa. It spirals out of control and blooslust is incited as the snakes reek havoc in the downtown market. After learning the truth behind the original Don Jacinto's downfall, the new Bustillo seeks vengeance on those responsible. Savagely beaten by one of Don Jacinto's destroyers and his associates, the new Bustillo, lying on the ground near a gas station recovering from his injuries, is peed on by a drunk youth. He retaliates.

Finally, while trying to find a place to lie low while the police search the city for him, the new Bustillo kills a rich family their security guards and maids in their home in an affluent neighbourhood.

By the end of the first chapter and its 50 pages, it is apparent that there is no particular reason the new Bustillo kills so many people.

Castellanos Moya is able to strip raw the chaotic effects of violence across a society by switching narrators throughout, using different characters in the second and third chapter. By the fourth, he returns to Bastillo/Sosa.

The second chapter is narrated by the deputy police commissioner responsible for stopping the outbreak of violence, which he must do while dealing with pressure from his superiors and the media, as well as with the unknown factors of his own staff and the crimes' unpredictable nature. It originally appears that the high-profile lady killed in the first attack just happened to wind up in the wrong place, but when her even higher-profile brother and his family are the victims of the final assault in the rich part of town, the serious question of whether this is a political crime is again raised.

A journalist narrates the penultimate chapter, which dutifully captures the political leadership and public's insecurity and penchant for reactionary behaviour. Neither the deputy commissioner nor the journalist are able to grasp the truth of the events.

Returning finally to the original narrator and his erotic relationship to the violence he has unleashed, Castellanos Moya skillfully captures the problems of perception that both make violence possible and exacerbate its effects.

Though graphic and possibly disgusting, Dance With Snakes strips bare with black humour the disconcerting capacities buried within humanity -- which all too often in the author's native South America have emerged to widespread misery. As an allegorical analysis of South American violence, this novel's incision cuts very close to the discouraging truth.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Though it has taken me far too long to post notice, Zach Wells's Track & Trace has been shortlisted for the Atlantic Poetry Prize. It's a well deserving nod, and T&T can stand in as Biblioasis representative for the two other poetry collections by Atlantic Canadians we published last year: Wayne Clifford's Jane Again, and Shane Neilson's Meniscus. The fact that Zach brought both to the press only ties them together in my mind all-the-tighter.

Congratulations Zach on some much deserved acknowledgment. Congrats also to the other nominees, Anne Compton for Asking Questions Indoors and Out and Tonja Gunvaldsen Klassen for Lean-to.

Atlantic Poetry Prize

Asking Questions Indoors and OutAnne ComptonFitzhenry and Whiteside

Anne Compton's first two collections marked the arrival of a major voice in Canadian literature. In this, her third book of poetry, she brings her crafted, narrative lines into focus on the mysterious metaphysical nature of everyday life. Spirit-haunted yet critical, and meticulous in her observations, Compton opens the immediate world by asking it questions, searching for answer to the way in which we live.

A native of Prince Edward Island, Anne Compton is Writer-in-Residence at UNB Saint John, where she also teaches English literature and creative writing courses and is the director of the Lorenzo Reading Series and the Backtalk Series. She has contributed to critical discussions on 19th-century and early 20th-century aesthetics; 17th-century metaphysical poetry; Canadian literature and Maritime literature. Her poetry is published nationally and internationally, and her reviews appear in Canadian Literature, Fiddlehead, and other journals. She won the Atlantic Poetry Prize in 2003 for Opening the Island and in 2006 for Processional, which also received the 2005 Governor General's Award for poetry. In 2008 she was honoured by the Alden Nowlan Award for Excellence in the Literary Arts.

In her third book of poetry, Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen writes of places made home, navigating between fixed points of origin and the flotsam that encloses, between the longevity of marriage and parenthood, and the temporary of camping trips, renovations and hospital stays. Across the collection, the poet's lyricism finds a lilt and repetition that firmly pegs while leaving one side open to the unlikely and unexpected.

Tonja Gunvaldsen Klaassen grew up on a farm in Saskatchewan, and now lives on a hill in Halifax with her husband James and their three boys. Her first collection, Clay Birds, won the Saskatchewan Book Award for Poetry in 1996. Her second collection, Ör, was shortlisted for the Pat Lowther Award in 2004. Her series "August: An Anniversary Suite" won a CBC Literary Award for poetry in 2005 and was published as a chapbook by Gaspereau Press. She's read in collaboration with Norman Adams on cello and has exhibited her work in the Anna Leonowens Gallery, Halifax.

Track & TraceZachariah WellsBiblioasis

The poems in Zachariah Wells's second collection range from childhood to dimly foreseen events in the future; they idle on all three of Canada's coasts, travel the open road, take walks in the city and pause on the banks of country streams and ponds. Both elegiac and celebratory, Track & Trace considers how we love, how we shape our lives and how we are eroded and drifted by time and circumstance.

Zachariah Wells is also the author of Unsettled, a poetry collection about his experiences in the Canadian Arctic. He is co-author of the children's book Anything But Hank! and editor of Jailbreaks: 99 Canadian Sonnets. Originally from PEI, Wells has travelled and lived all over Canada, working a variety of jobs in the transportation sector. He presently lives in Halifax, where he works as a freelance writer and editor and serves the travelling public aboard Via Rail's Ocean Ltd.